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Block Printing in Sanganer: A Traveler's Discovery
- omemy tutorials
- 11 hours ago
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Dear Diary,
Jaipur, Rajasthan - April 15th
Mark and I have wandered through the cobbled streets of Prague, marveled at Parisian boulevards, and lost ourselves in the chaos of London markets. We thought we'd seen it all. We were wrong.
Today, in a dusty workshop on the outskirts of Sanganer—a town most westerners have never heard of—I watched magic happen. Not the smoke-and-mirrors kind, but the real, tangible sort where human hands transform plain fabric into art that has graced royal courts for centuries.
Let me start at the beginning, because this story deserves a proper telling.
The Journey East
For years, Mark and I had been "those travelers"—the ones with dog-eared European guidebooks and an impressive collection of Scandinavian design magazines. We'd perfected the art of finding the best cappuccino in Rome and could navigate the London Underground with our eyes closed. But somewhere we realized we'd been circling the same cultural territory, admiring variations of familiar themes.
"We need something completely different," Mark said one rainy Stockholm evening, scrolling through travel blogs. "Something that will shake up everything we think we know about craft and design."
That's how we found ourselves booking a cultural tour to Rajasthan—India's western state that promised palaces, forts, lakes, and most intriguingly, centuries-old craft traditions that were still very much alive.
The itinerary looked perfect: Jaipur's City Palace, the serene Lake Pichola in Udaipur, the golden fort in Jaisalmer. But tucked into day four was a line that would change how I see textiles forever: "Morning workshop: Traditional Block Printing in Sanganer."
I'd seen block-printed fabrics before, of course. High-end boutiques in Stockholm and Copenhagen carried them—those beautiful Indian cottons with intricate patterns, priced as luxury items, displayed like gallery pieces. I'd even bought a block-printed scarf once, admiring its uniqueness before hanging it carefully in my closet.
But I had absolutely no idea what actually went into creating those patterns. None whatsoever.
The Block Printing Workshop That Wasn't Just a Workshop
We arrived at the Sanganer workshop at 9 AM, already sweating despite the early hour. The building was unassuming—a low structure with open courtyards, the kind of place you'd walk past without a second glance. Inside, however, was a different world entirely.
Our instructor, Prakash, greeted us with chai so sweet it made my teeth ache and a smile that suggested he knew something we didn't. He was probably in his fifties, with hands stained permanently in shades of indigo and madder red—the telltale marks of decades spent coaxing color onto cloth.
"You have seen block printing, yes?" he asked, his English accented but precise. "In your country, in shops?"
We nodded.
"Good. Now forget everything you think you know. We start from the beginning."
What Exactly Is a Printing Block?
Prakash led us to a wall lined with hundreds of wooden blocks, each one different, each one telling a story. They ranged from tiny squares no bigger than a postage stamp to elaborate rectangles the size of my hand. Some were simple—a single flower, a geometric shape. Others were so intricately carved I couldn't imagine how anyone had created such detail in wood.
"This," he said, picking up a palm-sized block, "is not just a tool. This is history, mathematics, and art combined in your hand."
The block he showed us depicted a stylized peacock surrounded by delicate foliage. Every feather was individually carved, every leaf perfectly proportioned. I ran my fingers over the raised surface, feeling the ridges and valleys that would soon transfer dye onto fabric.
"Traditional blocks are carved from teak wood," Prakash explained, rotating the piece so we could see it from all angles. "Teak is hard, dense, durable. A well-made teak block can last fifty years, maybe more, printing thousands of meters of fabric. Some families have blocks passed down through four, five generations."
He set down the peacock block and picked up another—this one showing a simple paisley motif. "Carving a block like this takes three to four days of work by a skilled craftsman. This peacock? Maybe two weeks. The carver must work in reverse, thinking always how the pattern will appear when printed. Every cut must be precise—too deep and the block won't print evenly, too shallow and the pattern won't transfer."
Mark leaned in, his architect's brain clearly fascinated. "How do they ensure symmetry?"
"Ah!" Prakash's eyes lit up. "First, the design is drawn on paper. Then transferred to the wood surface. The carver works with chisels of different sizes, the smallest barely thicker than a needle for fine details. For perfect symmetry, they measure constantly, use geometric principles our ancestors understood centuries before European mathematicians wrote about them."
He showed us blocks made from other materials too—some artisans now used linoleum for experimental designs, others had begun using rubber for certain effects. But traditional blocks, the ones that produced the finest work? Always teak. Always hand-carved. Always unique.
"No two hand-carved blocks are exactly identical," Prakash said, running his thumb over a border design. "Even if carver makes two blocks from same pattern, there will be tiny differences. This is what makes block printing special—it has human imperfection built into its perfection."
Blocks for Block Printing
Five Thousand Years in the Making- History of Block Printing
Before we got our hands dirty (quite literally, as it turned out), Prakash sat us down with more chai and what he called "the necessary history lesson."
"Block printing in India is not hundreds of years old," he began. "It is thousands. We have archaeological evidence of resist-dye techniques from the Indus Valley Civilization—5,000 years ago. By the time Vikings were just beginning their explorations, Indian block-printed textiles were already being traded across Asia."
He pulled out a battered book filled with photographs of museum pieces—ancient fragments of printed cloth preserved in the dry climate of Gujarat and Rajasthan, pieces that had survived in Egyptian tombs, evidence of Indo-Roman trade.
"Rajasthan became famous for block printing because we had everything needed: skilled artisans, natural dyes from local plants and minerals, and trade routes. Jaipur and Sanganer became centers of this craft. Royal courts commissioned special designs—patterns so complex, they required twenty, thirty different blocks to complete one motif."
The craft had nearly died, Prakash explained, during the industrial revolution. Why spend days block-printing fabric when factories could produce similar-looking prints in hours? Many artisan families abandoned the tradition, seeking steadier income elsewhere.
"But some families kept going," Prakash continued, his voice carrying both pride and sadness. "My grandfather, my father, now me. We kept the knowledge alive. And now, people from Sweden"—he smiled at us—"come to learn what we almost lost."
In the 1960s and 70s, there had been a revival. Designers rediscovered the beauty of hand-blocked fabrics. Export markets opened. The craft that had been declared dying was, against all odds, surviving. Not just surviving—thriving in new ways while staying true to its ancient roots.
"Today," Prakash said, "we print for fashion houses in Paris, for designers in Tokyo, for boutiques in your Stockholm. But we also still print for local weddings, for temple hangings, for the same purposes our ancestors did. Old and new, side by side."
The Alchemy of Color in Block Printing
Next came what Prakash called "the science part"—though it felt more like alchemy to me.
He led us to a corner filled with metal containers, each holding a different substance. Some were vibrant pastes—deep indigos, rich madders, sunny yellows. Others were powders, liquids, mysterious compounds I couldn't identify.
"Natural dyes versus synthetic—we use both now, depending on the project and the budget," Prakash explained. "Natural dyes are what we traditionally used. Indigo from the indigo plant, red from madder root, yellow from turmeric or pomegranate rind, black from iron oxide mixed with jaggery and water."
He showed us samples of naturally dyed fabrics, their colors soft and somehow alive in a way synthetic dyes never quite achieve. The indigo wasn't just blue—it was blue with depth, blue with subtle variations, blue that seemed to shift in different lights.
"Natural dyes are beautiful but unpredictable," Prakash admitted. "Weather affects them, water quality affects them, even the mood of the dyer affects them." He laughed. "My father used to say you must approach natural dyes like you approach a beautiful woman—with respect, patience, and the understanding that you will never fully control the outcome."
Synthetic dyes, introduced in the late 19th century, offered consistency and a broader color range. Most commercial block printing today uses azo-free synthetic dyes that are colorfast, reliable, and less labor-intensive.
But dye alone doesn't work for block printing—it's too thin, too watery. This is where thickeners come in.
"For printing, we must make the dye into a paste," Prakash explained, scooping up a spoonful of gum from a large container. "This is gum tragacanth, from a tree resin. When mixed with water and dye, it becomes thick enough to sit on the block, thin enough to print clearly."
Traditional thickeners included gum arabic, tamarind seed powder, and various plant-based starches. Modern printers often use synthetic thickeners—easier to work with, more consistent. But Prakash, like many traditional artisans, preferred a mix of old and new.
"The paste must be exactly right," he emphasized, showing us samples. "Too thick, pattern prints heavy, doesn't transfer properly. Too thin, bleeds, looks faded. Getting this balance—this is where experience matters."
He mixed a batch in front of us, measuring by eye and feel rather than precise measurements. A bit of dye powder, some water, a scoop of thickener, stirring until the consistency was... well, exactly right, apparently, though I couldn't have articulated what that meant.
"In old days, each color required separate thickener preparation, separate block, separate printing session. One design in five colors? Five different days of printing, allowing each color to dry between sessions. Now, with synthetic dyes and careful planning, we can sometimes print multiple colors in one day. But patience is still required. Rush this craft, and the work shows it."
The Block Printing Table That Makes It All Possible
Before we could finally start printing, Prakash showed us what he called "the most important tool in the workshop after the blocks themselves"—the printing table.
It looked deceptively simple: a long, wide table, perhaps three meters long and one meter wide, padded with layers of fabric and covered in a smooth cotton surface. But as Prakash explained its construction, I realized this "simple" table was actually a precision instrument.
"The base is solid wood—teak again, because it doesn't warp," he said, rapping his knuckles on it. "On top, we layer old fabric, maybe twenty, thirty layers, creating padding. This padding must be firm but have slight give. Too hard, block doesn't print evenly. Too soft, pattern blurs."
The padding is crucial because block printing requires pressure—the printer must press the block firmly onto fabric to transfer the dye. That pressure needs to be absorbed evenly by the padding beneath, creating consistent contact across the entire block surface.
"The top surface must be perfectly smooth, perfectly flat," Prakash continued. "We stretch cotton or muslin across the padding, pulling it tight, stapling it to the wooden frame. This surface gets replaced regularly—maybe every few months, depending on how much we print. Any wrinkle, any imperfection in this surface, and it shows in the printing."
The table's height matters too. Traditional printers stand while working, and the table must be at exactly the right height—too high and the printer can't apply proper pressure, too low and their back will be destroyed after hours of bending. Prakash's table hit him just below the hip, a height he'd calibrated through decades of experience.
"Some workshops have tables ten, fifteen meters long," he said. "For printing long lengths of fabric, like sarees or dupattas. But for learning, this size is perfect."
The Mathematics of Beauty- Block Printing Design Placement
Finally—finally!—we were ready to print. Or so I thought.
"First," Prakash said, pulling out a piece of chalk and a measuring tape, "we must plan."
This is where my mind was completely blown. I'd assumed block printing was... well, you dip a block in dye and stamp it on fabric, right? Sort of like potato printing I did as a child?
Oh, how wrong I was.
Prakash laid out a piece of white cotton on the table—about two meters long, one meter wide. "This will become a table runner," he explained. "Simple project for learning. But even simple requires planning."
He showed us the design: a border pattern running along both long edges, and a central medallion pattern in the middle. Three different blocks total—one for the border repeat, one for the medallion, and one for small filling motifs.
"First question," Prakash said, "where does the border start and end? Must be perfectly centered. So we measure." He measured the fabric length, marked the exact center, then measured from each end to determine where the border would begin.
"Second question: how many times does the border block repeat? The block is 15 centimeters wide. Our border length is 180 centimeters. So... 180 divided by 15..."
"Twelve repeats," Mark said, his engineer brain immediately doing the math.
"Exactly! But look—" Prakash pointed to the border block. "This pattern has a flowing vine. Each block must connect to the next block perfectly, so the vine looks continuous, not chopped. This means I must print exactly—not approximately, exactly—15 centimeters apart, and the block must be aligned perfectly straight each time."
He pulled out a long metal ruler and began marking tiny points along the fabric edge with chalk—each point exactly where one block would end and the next would begin.
"For the center medallion, we must calculate placement so it sits exactly in the middle, both lengthwise and widthwise. And the small filling motifs? They must be evenly spaced around the medallion. This requires measuring, marking, sometimes adjusting the plan when mathematics doesn't cooperate with aesthetics."
I watched him work with the chalk and ruler, marking the fabric with tiny, precise points that would guide the printing. It was less like art and more like architectural drafting—every measurement double-checked, every angle verified.
"In traditional workshops, the master printer does all this planning," Prakash explained. "It might take an hour to measure and mark fabric that will take three hours to print. But this planning? This is what separates beautiful work from amateur work. Anyone can stamp a block. Making that block align perfectly, making the pattern flow seamlessly—this requires mathematics and precision."
The Dance of Hand and Eye- Process of Block Printing
At last, we printed.
Prakash demonstrated first, dipping the border block into the dye paste, tapping off the excess on the rim of the container, then positioning the block precisely on the first chalk mark. He pressed down firmly—I could see his arm muscles engage—and held for a three-count before lifting straight up.
Perfect. The pattern transferred cleanly, every delicate line visible, the color even across the entire block.
"Your turn," he said to me, reloading the block with dye.
I approached it like I was defusing a bomb. Dip the block (not too deep, just the surface). Tap off excess (gently, don't splatter). Position on the mark (line it up exactly... no wait, a bit to the left... no, back to the right...). Press down (am I pressing hard enough? Too hard?). Lift up (straight up, don't tilt, don't smudge...).
My first print was a disaster—half the pattern didn't transfer, the other half was blotchy, and I'd somehow managed to print it slightly crooked despite Prakash's careful chalk marks.
"Again," he said cheerfully. "Block printing requires muscle memory. Your hands must learn the correct pressure, the correct angle. Takes practice."
It took me six attempts to get a print Prakash deemed "acceptable"—not good, mind you, just acceptable. Mark fared slightly better, though his fourth attempt resulted in what Prakash politely called "an interesting smudge effect."
But slowly, slowly, we improved. By the end of two hours, I could print the border repeat with maybe 70% accuracy. The blocks started to flow, one connecting to the next, the vine pattern beginning to look continuous rather than like a series of disconnected stamps.
"The hardest part," Prakash said, watching Mark attempt a particularly tricky corner turn, "is the corners and edges. Look—"
He showed us how the border pattern had to turn the corner at the end of each long edge. This required a special corner block—carved specifically to make the 90-degree turn while maintaining the vine's flow. The corner block had to align perfectly with both the ending of one border and the beginning of the next, creating an L-shape that looked natural rather than contrived. Since every border block does not necessarily have a corner block, we can use a blotting paper to shield half of the corner diagonally by paper bisecting the corner at exactly 45 degrees and then print. Repeat the process now (after the dye has dried) for the other half of the corner as you move to the perpendicular side of the fabric.
"Master printers can do this without measuring," Prakash said, demonstrating a corner print that aligned so perfectly it looked machine-made. "They feel it—their hands know the exact pressure, their eyes know the exact placement. This takes years. Some printers work their whole lives and never quite master corners."
The central medallion was another challenge entirely. It required four identical blocks printed in a cross formation, each one positioned so precisely that the four pieces created one seamless circular design. Half a millimeter off, and the whole thing looked wrong.
"This is why block printing can never be fully replaced by machines," Prakash said as we struggled with the medallion alignment. "Machine printing is perfect but dead. Block printing is imperfect but alive. You see these tiny variations, these small human errors? This is what makes each piece unique. No two block-printed fabrics are exactly alike, even if made with the same blocks and same pattern."
The Revelation in the Details
By hour three, my hands were stained with indigo, my back ached from bending over the table, and I had profound respect for anyone who does this work daily. Prakash had made it look easy—the casual way he dipped and pressed, the effortless precision of his placement. Watching him work was like watching a pianist—the motion looked simple until you tried to replicate it and realized the thousands of micro-adjustments, the perfect timing, the muscle memory built over decades.
We learned about aftercare too—how freshly printed fabric must be dried in shade, never direct sunlight, to prevent color fading. How it must be washed in cold water with specific techniques to set the dye and remove excess thickener. How the fabric actually improves with washing, the hand becoming softer while the colors settle into a gentle patina.
"Industrial printing, the color is most bright when new, then fades with washing," Prakash explained. "But well-done block printing with quality dyes? The colors mature, deepen, become more beautiful with age and use. A block-printed textile can last fifty years if cared for properly. I have seen sarees printed by my grandfather, still worn by grandmothers in the village, still beautiful."
He showed us examples—vintage pieces with colors that had mellowed into gorgeous, subtle tones, the fabric softened by decades of washing but the patterns still clear, still perfect. There was a tablecloth he said was forty years old, printed with natural indigo and madder, and honestly, I would have believed it was printed yesterday except for the telltale softness of well-loved cotton.
What a Stockholm Boutique Can't Tell You about Block Printing
As we cleaned our hands (which took considerable effort—indigo does not surrender easily), Prakash wrapped our practice table runner for us to take home. It was imperfect, spotted with our amateur mistakes, with corners that didn't quite align and a medallion that sat slightly off-center. But looking at it, I felt something I'd never felt about the pristine block-printed scarf hanging in my Stockholm closet—pride. Connection. Understanding.
"When you buy block-printed fabric in your country," Prakash said, "you see only the finished product. You don't see Ramesh who carved the blocks over two weeks. You don't see the dye-maker who spent years learning to mix colors that won't fade. You don't see the printer who stood for eight hours, printing the same block hundreds of times, maintaining perfect pressure, perfect alignment, despite tired hands and aching back. You don't see the mathematics, the planning, the precision required."
He was right. I'd seen those fabrics as pretty objects, luxury purchases. I'd never seen them as what they actually were—repositories of thousands of years of accumulated knowledge, each piece representing hours of highly skilled labor, each pattern the result of mathematical calculation and artistic vision working together.
"This craft survives because people like you come here and learn," Prakash continued. "Because you go back to Sweden and tell others what you learned. Because you understand now that the fabric costing 5,000 rupees in the high-end boutique... It should cost 5,000 rupees. Maybe more. Because you now know what goes into making it."
The Journey Forward
We stayed an extra hour beyond our scheduled workshop time, unable to pull ourselves away. Prakash showed us advanced techniques—resist printing, where wax or mud blocks parts of the fabric before dyeing, creating intricate negative-space patterns. Multi-color printing, requiring separate blocks for each color, each one aligned perfectly with the previous layer. Experimental techniques combining block printing with embroidery, beadwork, appliqué.
"Block printing is not frozen in the past," he explained. "Every generation adds something new. My grandfather would be shocked by some of the modern designs we print now. But the fundamental technique—the blocks, the pressure, the precision—this remains the same as 5,000 years ago. We honor tradition while embracing innovation."
As we finally said our goodbyes, arms full of our amateur creations and hearts full of new appreciation, Prakash gave us one final piece of wisdom:
"You will go home and look at textiles differently now. You will see patterns and think about the blocks that created them. You will notice corners, repeats, alignment. You will understand the work hidden in beauty. This is the real gift of learning a craft—not just knowing how to do it, but understanding what it takes to do it well."
Back in Stockholm
I'm writing this entry two weeks after returning home, sitting in our flat in Stockholm, that "pristine" block-printed scarf spread across my lap. I've been examining it with new eyes, tracing the pattern repeats, noticing the tiny imperfections that mark it as genuine hand work rather than machine reproduction. I can see where the printer pressed a bit harder on one block, creating a darker impression. I can see the barely visible alignment marks at the edges where the fabric was measured before printing. I can see the craftsmanship I'd never seen before.
Mark has become insufferable at design stores. Last weekend, he spent twenty minutes explaining block printing technique to a bewildered sales assistant at a boutique selling "hand-printed Indian textiles" that were quite obviously screen-printed. (The assistant was not amused. I was mortified. Mark was on a mission to educate the masses.)
But here's what I keep coming back to: those four hours in Sanganer taught me something bigger than block printing. They taught me that true craft knowledge can't be absorbed from afar, can't be appreciated through transactions alone, can't be understood by simply owning the finished product.
You have to stand at the printing table, hands stained with dye, back aching, struggling to align a corner block, failing and trying again, before you really understand what mastery looks like. You have to feel the weight of tradition in your hands—literally holding blocks carved using techniques perfected over millennia—before you can appreciate the chain of knowledge that connects contemporary artisans to their ancient predecessors.
Our travels have always been about seeing the world. But Sanganer taught us there's a difference between seeing and understanding. You can see block-printed fabrics in a Stockholm boutique window. But to understand them—to really see them—you need stained hands, sore muscles, and humble appreciation for the gap between amateur enthusiasm and genuine mastery.
That imperfect table runner is now draped across our coffee table, its crooked corners and slightly-off medallion proudly displayed. When friends compliment it (and they do, because even our amateur work has a beauty that machine-made items lack), I don't just say "thanks." I tell them about teak wood blocks carved over weeks, about mathematics and alignment, about Prakash and his stained hands and his family's 200-year connection to this craft.
I tell them that this imperfect piece of fabric represents something far more valuable than the perfect boutique scarf ever could—it represents understanding. Hard-won, hand-stained, thoroughly earned understanding.
Prakash was right. I will never look at textiles the same way again.
And I couldn't be happier about that.
Rachel
P.S. - We're already planning our next trip to Rajasthan. Mark wants to learn natural dye-making. Prakash, if you're reading this somehow (unlikely, but who knows how the internet works these days), save us a spot in your workshop. We'll be back.
P.P.S. - That scarf that was "pristine" in my closet? I've started wearing it. Daily. Because Prakash taught me that block-printed textiles aren't meant to be preserved behind glass—they're meant to be lived with, washed, worn, loved into their full beauty. The colors are already starting to settle into gorgeous variations. In about forty years, it might look as beautiful as those vintage pieces he showed us. I'm oddly excited to grow old with this scarf.
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